Lost will be responsible for me failing college. Or not.
Author's Notes: My first Lost 'fic! Wow. Sawyer one-shot here, nothing particularly impressive, but it features the Elton John Sunglasses from "Raised By Another", and Sawyer being a little bit introspective and junk.
Not affiliated with anyone involved with Lost; the character of Sawyer doesn't belong to me, and, unfortunately, neither does Josh Holloway, who belongs to his wife (lucky woman).
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He surrounded himself with all of the suitcases because they're something permanent. Something tangible that will be around for a while. He taps the side of a battered black briefcase, almost as if he wants to mentally assure himself that it's real.
He went through all of them a few days ago, looking for clothes and food for himself. Then he dug all of the other potentially useful things out: batteries, flashlights, any and all magazines (including a few Playboys for hard times), condoms (if any opportunities arose...), and sunglasses.
He'd given Sticks a pair some time ago, but there were still dozens of pairs still left over. He'd decided to keep a pair with midnight black lenses and wide black frames for himself. They were Armani. Poor bastard who bought 'em probably wasn't even alive anymore. At least he wouldn't have to worry about them shoving bamboo up his nails or anything (he thought of this while ruefully staring at his still-bandaged fingers). There was a pair of aviator sunglasses that were brown at the top of the lenses and faded to clear at the bottom. He could bear to part with those.
There were tons of cheap pairs, probably picked up at the airport gift shop before the buyer got on the plane. There were the blatantly feminine pairs, like the ones with the cats-eye frames and lilac lenses. A white framed pair with blue lenses sat on his lap. There was a small pair with red heart-shaped frames and blue lenses. His stomach dropped a little, realizing whom they could've belonged to. Poor kid.
He was studying one pair in particular that had managed to stick out to him. They were particularly ridiculous, white frames with daises and little rhinestones, and orange lenses. For a brief second, he wondered what woman—or girl—they'd belonged to, and what had prompted her to buy them. He put them on, and looked around, smirking at the new orange-tinted view of the island. He leaned back in the recovered plane seat and closed his eyes, the orange colored sky fading away.